That's What Faith Can Do
by outside the crayon box
Summary: Seven girls, plus seven boys. All strangers. All attending Camp Half Blood. [Clique & Percy Jackson]
1. Προεπισκόπηση

**title:** that's what faith can do  
 **author:** outside the crayon box  
 **summary:** seven girls, plus seven boys. all strangers. all attending camp half blood. [cliquexpjo]  
 **rating:** k+  
 **notes:** this is a crossover between _the clique_ series and the _percy jackson_ series. please enjoy and leave some nice reviews! :)  
 **disclaimer:** i own neither _the clique_ by lisi harrison or _percy jackson_ by rick riordan.

* * *

 _prologue - Προεπισκόπηση_

* * *

 **~ Massie Block, Daughter Of Ares ~**

 _"If you want to be strong, learn how to fight alone."_

 **~ Alicia Rivera, Daughter Of Aphrodite ~**

 _"Why fit in when you were born to stand out?"_

 **~ Dylan Marvil, Daughter Of Poseidon ~**

 _"The waves that wash you away are the same ones that will carry you home."_

 **~ Kristen Gregory, Daughter Of Apollo ~**

 _"When you can't remember why you were hurt, you know that you are healed."_

 **~ Claire Lyons, Daughter Of Hypnos ~**

 _"Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose."_

 **~ Layne Abeley, Daughter Of Dionysus ~**

 _"You had me at Merlot."_

 **~ Olivia Ryan, Daughter Of Hades ~**

 _"You are all going to die, but I am going to deserve it."_

 **~ Derrick Harrington, Son Of Ares ~**

 _"Remember what you're fighting for."_

 **~ Joshua Hotz, Son Of Hermes ~**

 _"Your journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."_

 **~ Christopher Plovert, Son Of Athena ~**

 _"Don't let your emotions outweigh your intelligence."_

 **~ Kemp Hurley, Son Of Aphrodite ~**

 _"Be your own kind of beautiful."_

 **~ Cameron Fisher, Son Of Hades ~**

 _"You are a gorgeous lie, and I am a bitter truth."_

 **~ James Winston, Son Of Poseidon ~**

 _"You will never miss the water until the well runs dry."_

 **~ Dempsey Solomon, Son Of Hera ~**

 _"You knew exactly what you had, but you just never thought you'd lose it."_

 **. . .**

S(7G + 7B) + CHB = TWFCD

S = Strangers

G = Girls

B = Boys

CHB = Camp Half Blood

TWFCD = That's What Faith Can Do

 _more chapters coming soon_


	2. Δεκέμβριος

**title:** that's what faith can do  
 **author:** outside the crayon box  
 **summary:** seven girls, plus seven boys. all strangers. all attending camp half blood. [cliquexpjo]  
 **rating:** k+  
 **notes:** this is a crossover between _the clique_ series and the _percy jackson_ series. please enjoy and leave some nice reviews! :)  
 **disclaimer:** i own neither _the clique_ by lisi harrison or _percy jackson_ by rick riordan.

* * *

 _chapter 1 -_ _Δεκέμβριος_

* * *

By now, Joshua Hotz recognizes the sound of his world crashing down. The apocalypse always begins with the same words. Most of the time, they are spoken by the adult that has promised (but those don't mean much, do they?) to take care of him, to support him, to love him through thick and thin.

"Josh, honey, I'm so sorry, but . . . "

There are many ends to this sentence. The most popular have been _this isn't working out anymore_ (like he's some sort of toxic lover), _there's nothing we can do_ (do they think he has just given up, when he's never tried harder at anything?), _we're going to call the social worker tomorrow_ (because God forbid they act like adults and ask him what to do; he certainly knows by now), _we'll take care of it all, please don't worry about a thing_ (like this actually relieves him of any sort of anxiety about where he's going to live next or whether he'll end up on the streets), _we really didn't want to do this_ (but you're doing it anyway, please cut the crap), and _we need to focus on our own lives for the time being_ (but what if he was your _real_ kid, would you still just toss him out?).

At this point, it doesn't matter. Joshua won't expect anything else, not from the carbon copies that have failed him once again. But this time, he's a teenager and maybe the agency won't watch so carefully.

Maybe this time, he can leave.

He plans the escape carefully (as diligently as a dyslexic, lonely, desperate foster kid possibly can), but he makes the mistake of taking the next opportunity.

* * *

It's now two days before he'll be sent back to the group home, and all Joshua needs is one chance: one ten-minute slot during which he can grab his things and run. Rigorously, he tracks the foster family's (not that they're any sort of true family, not in the slightest) schedule.

 _Mrs. Palm leaves for an hour every day at four. Mr. Palm goes to work at seven but he gets home at two. They never go on dates together, except Saturday nights when the agency lady comes to check up on me._

He keeps his notes on a wrinkled sheet of paper. At the moment, it's stuffed in the back of his desk drawer. (Not that anyone bothers to look — he could be dealing and nobody would know.)

Joshua consults the list once a day, adding any meager bit of information he comes across. _She has a doctor's appointment while he's at work tomorrow. Perfect (last) opportunity to go, unless they get the social worker to stay here._

Usually, Mrs. Regalia watches him while his foster parents are out. But at this close a time to his imminent departure, it's possible that they'll be too busy to worry about a babysitter. It's unlikely, but there's nothing else to hope for.

Sighing, he pushes aside the window shutters, hoping for some weak sunlight. The bulb in his lamp blew out last week, and the Palms didn't think it was worth replacing.

As expected, his foster father's car is long gone. But in the driveway is Mrs. Palm, casually chatting with a neighbor. Joshua is alone in the house. The back door is unguarded.

His heart leaps into his throat.

He grabs handfuls of clothes off the floor. Anything within reaching distance is crammed into his bag. The rest is left behind.

At 11:30 A.M., on the day before his fourteenth birthday, he sprints down the staircase and throws the back door open. It's the last time Joshua sees the inside of shelter for two weeks.

* * *

A week later, he finds himself on a park bench: freezing, starving, and the weakest he's ever been. This is worse than the assault by his teenage foster brothers, worse than the time a German Shepard bit him (ten stitches right along his jawline), worse than being two years old and losing the only true family he'd ever known.

His shins and feet are bleeding, his nails are ragged, his head is itchy, his stomach is growling. The cold is penetrating his bone marrow. He pulls another sweatshirt out of his bag and wraps it around his torso. It doesn't help.

Joshua bows his head, pressing his chin into trembling kneecaps. Closing his eyes, he tries to sort through the mess he's made, but his brain is obstructed with chilled air and stale cigarette smoke and he's wondering how horrible it could be to just die right here. Nobody would know. Nobody would care.

He watches a shallow wind blow crisp leaves across the asphalt. He focuses on a trampled bouquet of flowers, wondering why someone would leave such beautiful roses on the street. He flips his last quarter through his fingers, then tosses it behind him. But instead of the sound of metal clattering on the sidewalk, there is a disconcerting silence.

He forces himself to twist around.

It's a person. A man, with the sort of muscles that only come with a constant use of steroids. Messy dark hair flops over his face. He has the same color eyes as Joshua. The coin rests in his open palm. He speaks slowly. "After all this time."

The boy is sure that he is hallucinating. Didn't he read somewhere that people imagine things when they're about to die?

"Don't you speak, kid?" The man approaches with large, easy steps. Then he swings himself over the bench and plops down.

Alarm bells scream in Joshua's head. _Kidnapper. Rapist. Murderer._ But he can't bring himself to move, can't even open his mouth to yell.

The man nods. "I'm Hermes. You might have heard of me."

 _What kind of name is that?_ "I . . . I don't know a Hermes. You've got the wrong guy."

"No, I don't think I do. Only my son could survive like this. It's less than twenty degrees out, Joshua."

"You can't know my name." He musters the last of his will to stand and pick up his duffel. "And I'm . . . I'm not your son."

Hermes reaches for him, fastening deft fingers around his wrist. "Thank Zeus I've found you. Percy would have killed me; I was supposed to claim you a month ago. Come on, I have to bring you to camp."

Joshua's knees buckle as he wrenches himself away. "You have the _wrong guy_ , sir. Please . . . just let me _go_."

"I'm offering you everything you need, kid. Food, water, warmth, a roof. A family."

"You mean the group home."

"The . . . " Hermes raises his eyebrows. "I'm not sure what that is. But this place is magical. It's _home_."

"Uh huh." Stars swim in front of his eyes. "S - sure."

"I mean it." Hermes swings the kid into his arms. "I'm going to bring you."

"O - okay," Joshua hears himself say. Snowflakes start to fall as he fades.

 **t . w . f . c . d**

"Let's go, dude. It's your turn." A cold beer splashes onto James Winston's neck. Hands push him toward the pool's edge. His toenails scrabble against the rough concrete.

James would like nothing more than to back the fuck out and leave. But the dark green blindfold is already wrapped around his eyes, and his arms are stuck behind his back. Some kid tied them together with old shoelaces.

He shuffles onto the marble surrounding the water, trying to breathe evenly. This is his favorite place. He should feel comfortable. He can do this.

"Three minutes. You sink, we try to get you out. Then you're done. No retries. You stay alive, and you're in, buddy." Someone slaps his ass and laughs. To James's ears, the sound is shrill and almost painful.

He can hear the filters bubbling as the pool overflows. Water is beginning to lap at his feet. The longer he waits, the more chance he has of drowning. And more importantly, not being accepted into Xi Phi Sigma, the most prestigious frat in his private high school.

"Shove, jump, or toss?" someone asks, already placing his hands on James's hips.

He doesn't realize he's been chowing down on his lip until he has to speak. He can taste the blood bubbling under his tongue. "Shove, please," he stammers.

"Fair enough." The boy's steps squelch in the water as he backs up. Then he leans forward and pushes James with all his might.

For a moment, his body swoons. Then he begins an agonizingly slow flop into the pool. His stomach hits first, sending a streak of pain down his spine. His neck snaps back, pulling the muscles in his shoulders. His wrists knock against each other.

"Two fifty six . . . two fifty five . . . two fifty four . . . two fifty three . . . "

His nose is buried in the water, and he's sucking in gulps of chlorine. No matter how much his legs flail, he can't manage to roll onto his back. He's beginning to feel woozy. Clouds pass over his blue eyes.

As if through a thick mist, James can still hear them counting. Their voices collide in an discordant wave. "Two forty eight . . . two forty seven . . . two forty six . . . "

 _Breathe_ , he instructs himself, but wants to laugh at the futility of the statement. Despite the chilled water, his body is on fire. Heat sears his brain. He imagines being above the water, with fresh air consuming his body. One huge inhalation will just give him the sustenance he needs . . .

Then, inexplicably, his lungs expand. Oxygen is flowing through his blood. The relief causes his body to go limp.

"Two twenty nine . . . two twenty eight . . . two twenty seven . . . two twenty six . . . two twenty five . . . " Their chant has become clear, even though the liquid surface.

Heart beating as quickly as it ever has, James sucks in another quick breath. The water surrounding him bubbles ferociously, and air once again fills his nostrils.

Across the pool, he swears that he sees a glimpse of dark hair and gleaming white teeth. A human face staring right at him.

* * *

It's been seven minutes since James discovered his bizarre ability to breathe underwater. He's wrapped in towels and he'll be coughing up bile all night, but he doesn't quite mind. For once, he feels totally safe.

"Way to go, man!" Tahir Luk slaps James between his shoulder blade. A senior and the current president of Xi Phi Sigma, it is ultimately his decision who is to be accepted into the XPS family. And it appears that he likes the newest recruit.

The others follow suit, giving high fives and grins. At the end of the line, the last boy stops. "How'd you do it?"

"How'd I do what?" he responds quietly.

"I was watching you. They were all eating and counting but I watched. You didn't come up once. You didn't take one breath. How could you possibly be alive right now?" His eyes (a strange shade of violet, now that James comes to think of it) are narrow and gleaming.

"I don't know." He tries to sound as nonchalant as possible. I thought about breathing, and then I felt like I was."

"You _felt_ like you were? That doesn't help you survive, bud." He raises his eyebrows, producing a tiny dagger from the collar of his moss-colored XPS polo. "Tell the truth."

James doesn't allow himself to take his eyes off the other boy. In one motion, he rises to his full height of five feet ten inches and tenses his muscles. "That _is_ the truth, _bud_."

The boy bares his teeth, exposing sharp canines. The knife comes up against James's cheek. "Reconsider, or you'll be seeing me later."

* * *

After a quick handshake with Tahir, James leaves the older kid's house. Blasts of Kore Stacks's latest release echo in his ears, and he turns down the volume on his iPhone. His white Adidas sneakers kick up tufts of dry grass. Kansas at the end of summer is the worst place to be.

He's turning onto Abel Court when something cold presses against the back of his neck. Immediately, he knows. _It's that one. With the violet eyes._

"That would be correct."

"Wha . . . " James can't even get out the full word before he's jumped. The knife comes down twice: across his stomach and curving around his kneecap. A strangled scream disappears before it makes noise. He clamps his eyes shut so he doesn't cry.

There is a soft hiss. "Silly little demigod, thinking we wouldn't find you. Thank you, Michele."

"No problem, ma'am." The blade is pressed into the anticube of his arm as the boy (Michele?) stands. "He's all yours."

"Open your eyes, Mr. Winston." It's a lady's voice, a soft croon, and James is seized with a sudden need to do as she asked. "Very good. Now, my name is Lamia. And I've decided that it's high time we took care of you."

He's already curled into the fetal position when he feels the unmistakable sensation of teeth on bare skin. Lips slide along the cut made by Michele's dagger. Then a painful _rip_ punctuates the air. A millisecond later, he becomes aware of the fact that a chunk of his abdomen is gone. _This woman will eat me alive._

But out of the blue, James is pushed to the side. Metal is pulled against metal. He forces his eyes to open. Standing in front of him is the man he saw in the pool: black hair, blue eyes covered by thin glasses, tall. A rapier is held firm in his right hand. There is no sign of the monster.

"My name is Poseidon, and there will be time for catching up later. But you need to come with me before she summons someone else."

"My belly," James tries to say, but his words won't come out. Then he is spun into darkness.


End file.
